


it's a sad song (but we're going to sing it even so)

by en-sam-malas (Hugabug)



Category: Black Friday - Team StarKid, The Guy Who Didn't Like Musicals - Team StarKid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Fusion, Alternate Universe - Hadestown Fusion, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Canon Compliant, Lovecraftian Monster(s), M/M, Post-Canon, Time Loop, cosmic horror, or maybe not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-05
Updated: 2020-06-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24553618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hugabug/pseuds/en-sam-malas
Summary: “I've opened the door, brother. Come. Enter. The Black&White will do you no harm, so long as you follow Its rules. We're giving you a chance. A trial, a test of sorts. Bring him home. Bring him back from the abyss. Hold him in your arms and the world will be whole again. All you gotta do is enter and exit without looking behind. Your faith, Xander, your faith will bring him back.”Bring John back.Or in which Xander is Orpheus, John is Eurydice, but they quickly realize that it's not that kind of story.
Relationships: Xander Lee/John McNamara
Kudos: 10





	it's a sad song (but we're going to sing it even so)

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hadestown's [Road to Hell (Reprise)](https://genius.com/Hadestown-original-broadway-cast-road-to-hell-reprise-lyrics)
> 
> Anybody else realize that Hatchetfield is a bit like the premise of Hadestown in that with every new installment, we know how it ends-- the characters will try and try to beat the apocalypse but, ultimately, they'll fail? The trend lets us know from the very beginning that it's a tragedy. There are no happy endings in Hatchetfield. But no matter what, we still watch the whole thing. Then we go back and we watch it again and again, thinking; "Maybe they'll stop it this time." It never does. And it fits with the time loop theory, too. Hatchetfield keeps trying to retell its story again and again, and it never comes out right-- but that doesn't mean it isn't a story worth telling.
> 
> I wrote this around the beginning of May, finished it on my birthday (the 19th), then shoved it to the back of my mind because it didn't come out as nice as I wanted it to and I wasn't very proud of it. But I decided to revisit and edit it this week after re-listening to both the Original and OBC albums of Hadestown. Now I don't hate it as much-- enough to even post it. So here we are. I hope you enjoy.

Cross gives Xander his hand in the last few hours of Black Friday. With it, comes an offer.

He says; “I've opened the door, brother. Come. Enter. The Black&White will do you no harm, so long as you follow Its rules. We're giving you a chance. A trial, a test of sorts. Bring him home. Bring him back from the abyss. Hold him in your arms and the world will be whole again. All you gotta do is enter and exit without looking behind. Your faith, Xander, your faith will bring him back.”

_Bring John back_.

And that’s all Xander can think, desperate, as he steps into the portal without hesitation, eyes closed, arms outstretched. John. John. _John_. His husband's name is the pulse that beats under his skin and in his mouth, thumping alongside every step he makes. In the Black&White there is no up. There is no down. Just a darkness around him so oppressive-- the kind that you don’t just see, but you witness. And feel. And breathe into your lungs with every gulp of air you take in your hitching chest. 

Xander stumbles a couple of steps, his footing confused in this endless sea of nothing, and for a moment, it’s almost like the grief is too much, too heavy, too painful in his hands, in his heart, pressing against his sternum until it’s almost like it’ll shatter under the pressure of it all.

That is. Until. In the dark, a whisper. A caress of finger tips. The tickle of a beard at the corner of Xander’s lip. Hands in his.

Xander gasps; "It's you."

John chokes on a strangled laugh; "It's me."

“ _John._ ”

"Xander," A beat. Then; “You shouldn’t have come.”

* * *

Xander walks, anyway. Walks and walks, forces his way forward, fighting against invisible hands that hold him back, sticky tar that makes him sink deeper and deeper with each step-- they are not alone. He cannot see them, but he can hear them. Barely there voices cry, a distant clock ticks. Laughter, like the buzzing of an incessant fly, rings in his ears. Yet, against all odds, Xander walks. 

John follows close behind, footsteps echoing alongside his, disembodied voice whispering in Xander’s ear and resonating all around him. “You shouldn’t have come, Xander. They don’t play fair. Xander, my love, my light. They don’t play fair and you should have never come.”

With every step they advance, John's frantic whispers get louder and closer, the phantom touches more solid-- fingers squeezing tightly on the nape of his neck, a familiar hand yanking at Xander's arm, begging him to turn around. "Remember the stories," John cries, tears in every syllable. The sadness riding every letter so palpable, it shakes Xander to his core. "The stories I've told you on those nights we couldn't sleep, the tragedies that transcend time. You know this one, Xan--"

Xander pulls his arm away, a violent gesture that nearly topples him. John reaches out to catch him, but Xander shakes the offer away, pressing down on his chest, feeling his sternum beneath crack and break, split under the weight of it all. Sinking to his knees, he weeps. Beats his chest. Pulls on his skin to somehow get to the splintering bones beneath, to hold them together in his shaky palms so they don't fall apart. He can barely breathe. "Stop," he pleads-- of John or of Wiggly, he doesn't know. This place that is no place at all, this darkness that is alive, it eats at him, ravages him, and his one beacon of light, the one thing he wants, the one person he would throw away _everything_ for, wants nothing to do with the grace Xander brings. He can't hold back a sob. "Just. Stop. Stop with your stories and your poetry and your songs-- _stop_. Stop."

The tar goes still. The hands fall away. The sinking, the crying, the laughter-- they all listen. They all stop. It goes still. Eerily quiet. John doesn't say a word.

Panic squeezes Xander's chest in a vice grip, the loneliness and grief he'd feared comes creeping back in, but he doesn't lift his head to look. Strains against every bit of him that begs him to _know_ , to be _sure_. He goes still, too, because what else could he do? Goes quiet, like a mouse in its hole, prey so close to the maw of a prowling predator that he can practically smell Its breath. Wiggly and Cross have him in Their grasp-- who is he against Them? Who is he to believe he could have brought John home? What does his resolve have against the ministrations of an eldritch god?

John. John was always the one with the blind faith, the heart needed for this kind of trial. The one with the undying belief that the universe would take care of them. The poet. The oracle who can see past the pain to the prosperity that lay ahead. John. John. _John._

With a deep breath, Xander reaches behind him-- keeps his head bowed, his eyes closed, his body twisted. His fingers stretch, pawing against the darkness. Silent. Begging. A desperate call: _John. Please._

And John takes his hand.

"Xander," John croaks. He brings Xander's hand to his mouth, presses a sweet kiss to the tender meat of Xander's palm. Xander cups his chin. Feels stray curls of soft, strawberry blonde hair tickle the rough pads of his fingers. The sensations are so real, so grounded in a landscape so surreal that Xander can't help but cry. 

John soothes him best he can. Trails fingers up his arm until he has Xander in his embrace, his damp cheeks pressed into the crook of his neck, the soft locks of his hair wiping away the tears best they can. Xander doesn't open his eyes, keeps to his word, but nuzzles closer. Breathes deep.

"John," he begs. " _John._ "

John shakes his head. Then says; "Listen to me. This isn't what you think it is, Xander. They don't play fair-- I would know. A dead prophet doesn't mean a dead prophecy. They'll find a way back in-- They already have. This is no trial, no test. Xan, it's a trick. A spiteful trick. This is no hell. It's a closed box and if we walk out of here, it will open wide enough for Him. It's a box, Xander--"

Xander twists his fingers in the fabric of John's sleeve. Understanding dawning. "And we're Pandora."

He opens his eyes and John fills his vision-- solid and real and beautiful. He's crying. But he's smiling, too.

" _Xander_ ," he says, with a laugh of both horror and guilty relief. "It's you."

"John," Xander smiles. "It's me."

And just like that, the air ignites with an anger that makes Xander quake. John holds on to him, now illuminated by the green light of a spiteful God. He yanks Xander to his feet and keeps him on them as the blackness and it's invisible hands and bubbling tar reach for them-- but they don't run. Running means They win. Xander understands now.

So he clings. He clings to John and John clings to him, as the wrath of Wiggly surrounds them and claws at them and beats them with all Its strength. Somewhere in the distance, Cross lets out a frighteningly human roar of frustration. But the pain means nothing, now.

The world around them splits at its seams, but Xander's world is in his arms.

Together, deep down in Drowsytown, they close their eyes. And they let their bodies fall away into a deep, deep sleep.

* * *

"Why don't they change the ending?"

John shakes his head with a sly smile. "Because that's not how the story goes. It's cheating."

"That's bullshit." Xander retorts, but it's playful. Sweet. He shoves John away gently, trilling in delight when John bends to his will, giggling. He stays away for a split second too long, however, and Xander pulls him close again, impatient, until the space between them is non-existent and the breath between them intermingle into one.

They laugh and then they settle. Together. Always together.

"They loved," John whispers with a grin, like he's sharing a special secret that he's deemed Xander and only Xander worthy of telling. "That's the most important thing-- endings are never truly happy, so they don't count. Not really. It's what happens before that does. The beginning. The middle."

Xander kisses John, drinks the words right out his mouth. "Then," he requests when they part. "Tell it again. From the top."

John's blue eyes shine. Xander doesn't have to ask twice. He opens his mouth, and begins again.

**Author's Note:**

> [I headcanoned before that if Xander is the one who is into Science and Math, then John is the one who is into literature and the arts. That headcanon is reflected rather heavily in this one shot.](https://en-sam-malas.tumblr.com/post/615086630244646912/some-mcnamander-peip-headcanons)   
>  [tumblr](https://en-sam-malas.tumblr.com/)


End file.
